THE
BLACK
COCK
,
WRITTEN
FOR
A
WELCH
AIR
,
CALLED
“
THE
NOTE
OF
THE
BLACK
COCK
.
”
GOOD
morrow
to
thy
sable
beak
,
And
glossy
plumage
,
dark
and
sleek
,
Thy
crimson
moon
and
azure
eye
,
Cock
of
the
heath
,
so
wildly
shy
!
I
see
thee
,
slily
cowering
,
through
That
wiry
web
of
silver
dew
,
That
twinkles
in
the
morning
air
,
Like
easement
of
my
lady
fair
.
A
maid
there
is
in
yonder
tower
,
Who
,
peeping
from
her
early
bower
,
Half
shews
,
like
thee
,
with
simple
wile
,
Her
braided
hair
and
morning
smile
.
The
rarest
things
with
wayward
will
,
Beneath
the
covert
hide
them
still
:
The
rarest
things
to
light
of
day
Look
shortly
forth
,
and
shrink
away
.
One
fleeting
moment
of
delight
,
I
sunned
me
in
her
cheering
sight
;
And
short
,
I
ween
,
the
term
will
be
,
That
I
shall
parley
hold
with
thee
.
Through
Snowdon's
mist
red
beams
the
day
;
The
climbing
herdboy
chaunts
his
lay
;
The
gnat-flies
dance
their
sunny
ring
;
Thou
art
already
on
the
wing
.